Laundry Day

At last, after more than three weeks in NYC, I dragged myself to the laundromat today to do what was necessary. It's funny that what really made me feel like I'm really living in this city isn't the 32498034 people on the streets, the tiny teeny apartments, the plethora of restaurants/bars within a 5 block radius or even a level of comfort with the subway system, but rather, it's this simple fact: I'm not doing laundry in my own home.

As I watched the washers turn in circles, I had an urge to call/text/talk to someone living in California, to tell them, “Hey! Guess where I am?” I can even say that the novelty of it all was more exciting than my first trek on the subway to Central Park alone the third day that I got here. Growing up, my family has always been the do-everyone's-laundry-together sort, where the entire family's clothes get washed together, and chores of folding and ironing get divided up between my brother and me (although to be honest, Mama Cheng did most of it), so washing and drying just my own clothes was a stage in my life that only came with college. Still, college meant we were doing laundry in our own buildings among our peers. Today was different. It was mid-day in the east village, and there's something about folding my clothes and underwear between a Chinese grandpa and a big, burly man sporting a Harley Davidson cut-off shirt that made me chuckle to myself.

So after an hour and a half, two blocks and five flights of stairs, I have clean clothes to wear again. I'm just glad that I don't have to do laundry on the weekends with the rest of the employed population.